Poetry, perceptions and purring

The Girl in the Dark

Anyone could see that she was exhausted.

She was lying there, crumpled in a corner, in the dark. Her legs were tightly crossed, over the ankles and tucked under her, to the side. When she moved, even slightly, you could see the traces of a fine tremor in the movement. Her arms were wrapped around her, almost as if holding herself together. She’d buried her face against the wall. With her eyes half open and her hair falling freely around her, she looked nothing more than a statue, even if one carved from living stone.

And stone she was, down to flecks of granite for eyes. Her fixed stare, betraying life for a moment, would flicker up and around the dark, illuminated in the stray light coming from the gaps in the curtain. They were as lifeless as she was – pupils fixed, dilated and empty, the perfect camouflage in an empty room. Anyone could see that she was empty.

There was nothing outwardly obvious that showed her thoughts, but by some unnamed mechanism, they were in the air, almost tangible. The droop in her shoulders, the huddled posture, the evident lack of strength enough for the slightest effort… It was obvious that she was almost gone. There was nothing left here. She was utterly spent, drained and depleted, after so many times, over and over again… Anyone could see that she was broken. Silvery scars running tracing aimless paths across her wrists, her arms, showed that she’d been cracked many times, and each time, the fissures had healed incompletely, like a smashed porcelain doll, carelessly glued together..

And she was, too. Beyond repair, it would seem. The futile watering of the wall with tears would not grow her any fortitude, would not bear her any fruit. The odd tear still trickled down from where she leaned her head. You’d think that those stone eyes would have run dry by now, but then tears are a funny thing. There’s always opportunity and capability for one more. The silver lining is that when you’re almost gone, you don’t have to worry about tears anymore. And anyone could see that she was almost gone.

Thank you Lily. That’s actually a real image. I had an old antique porcelain doll, as a child, and I remember a maid knocked it off the shelf while dusting. I glued it back together as best as I could, but the smile is still chipped, and there’s been an aura of frailty around it that’s surprisingly potent. Funny, isn’t it? The images we carry over from childhood.

Images we carry from our childhood…, some are funny, some are strange, and some are just sad. My choice is the funny, but strange and sad seem to be tied to them too. Really liked your imagery in this Cookie. It’s the kind of descriptiveness you can feel and touch.
Paul